


Alone he set forth

by valiantfindekano



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2199327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantfindekano/pseuds/valiantfindekano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon relates details of the rescue of Maedhros to a pair of historians, revealing the complicated impulses behind his decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone he set forth

The request came unexpectedly. Barely had Fingon dismissed the messengers of the Falathrim to draft a response when his guards were opening the doors to permit others before him. The prince looked up, taking note of his new visitors; one was a man with silver-touched brown hair, and the other a woman dark in hair and complexion. Between them, they carried paper and ink—but the papers appeared blank, and Fingon’s head tilted in confusion at their approach.

“Your Highness.” It was the man who spoke, though both of them bowed. “We were told you were unoccupied; if it does not trouble you, might we have discussion?”

“Certainly.” Fingon folded his hands together. “Of what matter, though? My father will be returning from his patrols this evening, if you would rather—“

“No!” The woman’s cheeks coloured at her own interruption. “Apologies, your highness, but it is you we would speak with.”

“We are compiling records,” her companion explained. “Histories, if you will. Scrolls with information of the foundation of the kingdoms in exile.”

_Scholars._  Fingon blinked; it occurred to him that now, two hundred years since they set foot on these shores, their early deeds were indeed becoming  _memory_. In Tirion there had been little haste to document anything, under the wholly safe presumption that there would always be time later, but the first years of exile had proved that the same approach would not work here when a battle might eliminate dozens, even hundreds of people, and their stories along with them.

“I may be able to clarify questions,” he agreed when the initial surprise wore off, though somewhat warily; was this their way of suggesting they feared for his longevity? Still, Fingon masked his apprehension with a smile. “Come, we’ll find a better arrangement than this. You’ll need seats and a table if you want to write with any ease. And would you prefer water or wine?”

* * *

 

A matter of minutes later, they were seated around a small square table, the water and wine (for their differing preferences) safely balanced on one end while the papers and ink rested on the other. Fingon’s long legs sprawled out in front of him, though both scholars were seated more properly.

Thus far he had learned that the man went by Iaurthegil—a name given to him by his Sindarin wife, though he was himself Tirion-born. The woman too was Noldorin, but much younger, born a year after Mereth Aderthad and recently apprenticed to Iaurthegil. She’d taken Saeradel as a Sindarin name, and Fingon decided it was hardly timely to assure her that she would find no judgement for deferring to Quenya.

“What was it you wished to discuss with me?” Fingon folded his hands in front of him, drawing off the earlier threads of conversation. “You said the foundation of our kingdoms. Is it a history of Eithel Sirion?”

Iaurthegil shook his head. “Our scope is earlier, your highness, though in time we may ask you and your father about it. We are encountering conflicting reports of…” His expression grew wary, however, and he paused.

Fingon frowned, an idea of what the man meant to ask forming in his mind. “Go on,” he prompted.

“Your rescue of Lord Maedhros,” Saeradel finished.

“We have reports of it, and more than enough praise of the deed.” Iaurthegil smiled timidly. “We thought a detailed report might be of use, and there are only two men who know exactly what happened.”

Fingon’s mouth straightened into a line; it was not a smile. “One and a half, I think,” he corrected, “and I am not sure myself if I mean that half to be Maedhros or Thorondor.” Having no wish to elaborate on his cousin’s distress just yet, he stopped there, though he expected their questions would return to it. Perhaps by then he would have come to a decision on how much he should tell them—Maedhros would not want to be memorialized in records as weak and in pain, would he?

“Our apologies. Nonetheless, Lord Maedhros is in Himring, and you are here.” Iaurthegil shuffled his notes. “May we begin at the beginning? I was among the company that you and your father brought to Mithrim from Vinyamar, though I was of course not privy to your counsels with the sons of Fëanor.”

Fingon nodded. “The details were as you might expect. My cousin Maglor met us; we inquired where his father and brother were.” It had not dawned on Fingon  _immediately_ that something was amiss, for he’d brought none of his other siblings with him either. Fëanor’s younger sons were absent, so why should the elder not be otherwise occupied? “It angered me at first, you know—oh, don’t write that! I feel very guilty about it now. If I’d had any idea, I’d never have thought a bitter thought towards Maedhros at all. I didn’t realize it was because he was unable to meet us. I thought it was his preference.”

“Were you two not friends?” Saeradel asked.

Fingon wondered if she knew how complicated the answer to that question was. “He was my elder in Tirion, but we were close,” he replied. “My youth was well-spent at his side. But we fell out of friendship even before Fëanor’s exile. I see now it was Morgoth’s lies that drove us apart, but I did not know it then.” It would be a greater regret of his if he didn’t in part feel that it was inevitable; sooner or later, their friendship would have been strained by their fathers’ feuding. Melkor had merely been a catalyst.

Iaurthegil finished another line of notes, then looked up. “Maglor must have informed you of his brother’s capture at that meeting, then.”

“To the best of his ability,” Fingon confirmed. “He did not know all the details of it. I am not sure if Maedhros knows either. He told me he was unconscious when they took him, but I am not sure if he was trying to spare me unpleasant details. I think it is not my place to tell, however.”

Both the scholars nodded, but they both looked puzzled. Here, Fingon, suspected, was where their confusion began.

“I know you did not inform your father when you left,” Iaurthegil eventually stated, and Fingon winced. “He must have sent every willing man out to search for you. How many people aided your escape?”

“None.”

“Your highness, you do not need to name names if they would rather—“

“I had no aid and no counsel.” Fingon’s expression was serious. He’d reached for his wine glass, but so far he had not taken a single sip from it, and now he only spun it between his fingers. “I did not leave immediately, mind you. I needed to study the region first, and gather supplies. But understand this—though I found Maedhros on a cliff’s face, I did not set out to find him there. I expected I would need to find entrance to Angband and to delve deep into its prisons to find him. No one in their right mind would have let me go, at least not alone, but a crowd of people would have drawn Morgoth’s attention. My hope was in stealth.”

Saeradel’s astonished look said it all. In retrospect, Fingon was willing to admit it had not been his most intelligent scheme, and he grimaced.

“No counsel, you said. You journeyed forth alone and without aid on an idea you thought of and shared with no one?” The woman’s eyes were wide.

Iaurthegil shot her a warning look, but Fingon merely nodded. “Maglor thought him dead, or at the very least, beyond help. I asked who had tried to save him, and his silence told me all I needed to know.”

The older scholar’s look was incredulous as well, but he masked it better. He rifled through his papers, however, pointed to something, and then looked up. “Your highness, if I may ask—you said you were no longer on good terms with Lord Maedhros. And…” He cleared his throat. “None of us were, as you know, after Losgar and the Ice. You were ready to risk your life for a man who had betrayed you.”

Fingon didn’t answer at first, so Saeradel jumped in again. “Some say it was a political move,” she suggested.

That at least brought the prince to let out a huff of laughter. “ _Some!_  Maedhros’ younger brothers, mostly! I hope you haven’t heard that around here.” Then again, he assumed she meant the ruder way of it, referencing those who thought it had been a move designed to blackmail the Fëanorians into relinquishing the kingship. Such thoughts couldn’t have been further from his mind, in fact. “It is true that he was High King at that time, though Maglor wore his crown. I wonder why they do not criticize  _him_  for it,” he added bitterly.

“They do,” Iaurthegil corrected mildly.

Finally, Fingon took a sip of his wine, then sighed. “Iaurthegil, you must remember how tense things were in Mithrim. I have spoken of what we said of Maedhros, but most of what we discussed was about the Helcaraxë, and all that we were owed after the betrayal. They were reluctant to relent, but so was my father. I suppose… I had a feeling of dread, that we would be caught in our arguments when our Enemy attacked and so unable to defy him, and I saw no way around it with so much resentment on both sides. But Maedhros had been my friend once…”

“I have heard it said that he did not participate in the ship-burning,” Saeradel suggested, her pen poised above her parchment. “Was that what prompted you to save him?”

That rumour, yes. Fingon took another heavy breath. Maedhros seemed unwilling to talk about it—but where would such a rumour have sprung from, if it was not based in truth? Whether or not Maedhros had set torch to the boats made little difference in the end, for none had come back, even when Fingon waited and looked out over the dark water for even a single ship to come to their aid.

“No one told me until after I returned,” he admitted. “I still thought him a traitor. But those were obstacles we needed to look past. All our relatives were unwilling, but I knew he was not like his father.” Maedhros sometimes seemed to share traits with Fingolfin, Fingon had privately thought. He could be noble and reasonable, and most importantly, still approachable in his stubbornness.

For the moment, both scholars had stilled their pens, though it was Iaurthegil who spoke next. “Your highness, you are an inspiration,” he said quietly. “Most would be unwilling to go in search of a trusted friend—“

“And no fault should be laid on them.” A smile touched Fingon’s lips. “It was a stupid, risky journey. I see it now. I am not regretful, but my father’s anger at my return reminded me that I had others to look after.” After a moment of silence, he reached for the bottle of wine. “Are you certain you want none? It may loosen your questions as well as my answers.”

The two smiled, but politely declined. “Perhaps a bit more about the walk itself, then. Now—did you  _truly_  bring your harp?” 

 


End file.
